


Ghost of Love

by bellatemple



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Autoerotic Asphyxiation, Bondage, Dubious Consent, F/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-16
Updated: 2008-09-16
Packaged: 2017-10-26 22:15:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/288482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellatemple/pseuds/bellatemple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's about sex, yes, but it's also about ghosts and learning and deciding one's own fate.  'Cause I can never write something just about sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghost of Love

**Author's Note:**

> I've never written anything remotely like this before, and every time I think about it I start cursing and snickering and I very nearly posted it under a new, unaffiliated name, but decided that would be lame. I totally blame [](http://twasadark.livejournal.com/profile)[**twasadark**](http://twasadark.livejournal.com/) and [this conversation](http://twasadark.livejournal.com/60496.html?thread=557136#t557136) for this actually getting written. Constructive feedback would be _adored_.

Dean loses his virginity at fourteen to Maggie Stevens, also fourteen, also a virgin, on her pink-sheeted twin bed while her parents sleep in the next room. They know enough from health class to use a condom -- which Dean's stolen from the mini-mart four blocks away -- and with four years' experience under his belt, Dean's a master kisser, but health class doesn't cover foreplay. It doesn't mention the clitoris or the G-spot or anything other than "insert penis, thrust, repeat", and so while the experience is mind-blowing and eye-opening for Dean, Maggie ends up not sure what all the fuss is about.

Two weeks later, she hooks up with a senior and lets Dean know that he has a _lot_ to learn.

And he won't, she tells him, in front of half the school, be learning it on her.

Dean's dad confirms this a few hours later, when he tells Dean and Sam to pack up and drives them out of town, headed for the next hunt and the next school and the next girl whose pants Dean hopes to manage to talk himself into.

* * *

It becomes something of an obsession for him, after that. He's left one girl unsatisfied, and one girl is one too many. He needs a teacher -- not something he often thinks, but it's true. He can't just ask a girl to let him experiment on her, and unlike fighting and escape techniques, he can't experiment on his younger brother. He can't ask his dad, either. His dad doesn't have sex.

Yes, he knows that Dad had to have had sex with Mom more than once to get Dean and Sam, he's been in health class in four separate school districts, after all, _he's no dummy_. But it's not something Dad does _now._ And if it _is_ , well. Dean doesn't want to know about it.

Seriously. Gross.

But with the way that they move around, it's hard for Dean to find someone to teach him. He tries to ask some of the older girls, for awhile, but it turns out "have you had lots of sex?" doesn't go over well as a conversation starter, and "I don't know how to get a girl off" _really_ isn't the way to convince her to let you see her naked, so he gives up. Guys are right out. He can tell by the way they talk about their conquests in the locker room that they don't actually have a clue what they're talking about, though he does learn the words "clit", "gizz" and "cum" the very first day he bothers to try to listen. They make it sound like a game, and maybe it is a game, but it's not like football or baseball, not really. It's its own, complicated, slightly terrifying game of wit and strategy.

And crap, he's comparing sex to _chess_ now, and he's never, ever, ever going to get laid again.

He makes off with another pack of condoms every time he's in a gas station convenience store, like having more condoms will make him more likely to get some action, but when it's time to leave again, he doesn't have the guts to pack them all up in his duffel, afraid his dad will find them and chew him out.

Or worse, try to _talk_ to him.

'Cause. _Gross._

And then they're moving again, and Dean's getting closer to fifteen, and he's thinking Maggie didn't _count_ , she couldn't count because she didn't like it and he's going to be a virgin forever, sitting around playing chess with Sammy forever and ever.

And geez, that's even _grosser._

* * *

When Dean's a little less than two months from his fifteenth birthday, they move into an old Victorian place on the edge of a small New England town, one that's been split into cheap apartments and furnished with even cheaper press-board furniture. The Winchesters manage to get a deal on the whole top floor, thanks some contact or other who knows somebody who knows somebody who once saved the landlord's rooster from a bunyip or something equally stupid and probably completely not-true, and that means that they get three bedrooms and one-and-a-half baths -- and Dean's never been able to figure out why they call a room with a toilet a "half-bathroom" in houses, but just a bathroom in schools and restaurants and things -- so Dean and Sammy manage to get their own rooms for the first time in . . . well, Dean's lost track. Hell, just getting to sleep in a different room than _Dad_ is a treat, this is like going to heaven without the mess of dying first.

Or it will be, just as soon as he manages to get a girl up here.

He's more determined than ever now to learn what the hell he's doing in bed, since if there's one thing that Maggie taught him, it's that he can probably get a girl a first time -- hell, he's "cute" enough to do that easy, so long as he doesn't pick some girl who's a total prude and "not ready yet" -- but if he wants her a second time, or any of her friends, or probably any other girl in the entire _county_ , he sure as hell better make sure she enjoys the ride, too. He starts lifting dirty mags, when he can, along with the condoms, not to whack off to -- okay, not _just_ to whack off to -- but to study, to figure out what everything really _looks_ like -- there wasn't a lot of looking, with Maggie, just "insert penis, thrust" in the dark -- and to find out what girls like. He learns they like "foreplay", but not exactly what that is. He learns they like stupid things like popular music and "guys with a sense of humor" and he decides that dirty magazines just aren't going to cut it, and he whacks off and groans into his pillow and figures he and his hand are going to have to get real friendly, because he hasn't got a chance.

And then one night, something magical happens.

He's met a girl, that day, in his shop class of all places. A girl like Maggie but even better, because she doesn't like pink and she listens to decent music and she's funny as hell as well as being hot as fuck, but she's a junior, so there's no way she'll put up with a total newb like him in the bedroom and he lies in bed thinking about her, about what her magnificent boobs would look like under his hands, about her sitting on his bed with her legs up and spread the way the women sit in the dirty mags, all trimed and glistening and just _waiting_ begging for his dick, and he feels hands, cold and light and damp like fog and kinda big slide over his hips and he hears a voice, faint and crackly like a dying record and calling him "Susanne" of all things, whisper promises in his ear of the greatest sex he's ever had, and he shudders and presses his feet into the mattress even though _hello_ , ghost dude feeling him up is, like, the opposite of sexy and there's another voice, like the first only softer and in his head and saying "Oh God, George, _yes_ ", and something tingles between his legs, not quite his dick, and he realizes that there's two ghosts here, not one, and the girl ghost is _in him_ and he's about to feel the best sex of the girl ghost's life and _this is his chance_.

So he lies back and he closes his eyes instead of going for the salt, and he concentrates on that tingle, on the way the large, ghost hands pinch and tickle there and slide _into_ something Dean doesn't even have and Dean doesn't even have to touch himself to be harder than he's ever been, even with Maggie.

He feels stubbly lips on a ghostly nipple and it sends signals through every part of his body, but mostly that strange ghostly spot that's not his dick but feels just as awesome and after awhile he forgets that he's trying to keep track of what the guy ghost's doing, take mental notes so that he can do it, too, later, on some not-ghost chick, and he just rides a wave of twitchy pleasure, even after he's managed to come all over himself _without even touching_ until the ghost lovers fade away and he falls asleep spent and naked and sticky, grinning like an asshole.

* * *

He should tell his dad the old Victorian place is haunted. He should salt his room and sleep on the couch and research the place and figure out who "George" and "Susanne" are so they can go dig them up and burn them and put them to rest.

But all they're doing is having sex. And Dean's found the teacher he wanted. He knows so much more already, more than any other guy could ever know, because he knows _exactly_ what it feels like if he puts his mouth on a girl's nipple and wiggles his fingers around in her junk, and no other guy could ever possibly know that. He'll be like a king. No, like a _god_. A sex god for all the hot women in the world and they'll flock to him and he'll never have to see a girl look at him the way Maggie did after she got with that senior, ever ever again.

So he doesn't tell his dad and he doesn't get the salt. He just goes to bed.

* * *

The girl in his shop class -- Leigh -- asks if he wants to go to a movie sometime, and for the first time since he slept with Maggie he grins and says "hell yeah" without feeling like a total tool.

* * *

The ghosts always come (get it? _Come_. He's a comic genius) after two in the morning, and Dean's starting to feel the lack of sleep. Dad asks about it, the one time he's home for breakfast, and Dean just shrugs and says something about homework, which they all know is a lie but Dad can't guess what the truth is, and if Sammy's looking at him funny, what the hell does that matter? He's only eleven. He hasn't even _kissed_ a girl yet. So what if he might've heard Dean moan once or twice (a night)?

Seriously.

And he's learning so much. This George guy was a real maverick. Who knew a girl could get off on _ice cubes?_ And that thing with the feathers, hell, that was like _magic_. He can't stop now. He wants to give Leigh the most and best orgasms she's ever had, wants to see her squirm the way he feels Susanne squirm night after night and hear her say " _Dean_ " the way Susanne says " _George_ ", like he's the most awesome being on the face of the planet and she wants to worship at his feet.

He wants to be perfect for her. And the next girl after her. And the next and the next. It's not like he'll ever find a girl like Mom was for Dad, not the way he lives. Dad had _years_ to get Mom to sound the way Susanne sounds. Dean's going to have, like, a week at most.

He's almost ready, too. He's sure of it. Just a couple more nights until the movie date. Dad'll be gone and he can get Sammy a new book at the library or something and he won't bother them and it'll be magic and Leigh will tell all the other girls how awesome he is, and he'll finally get to use the twelve packs of condoms he's got hidden under the mattress with the skin mags.

Just a couple more nights. He's fifteen (well, close enough, anyway). He can sleep when he's old.

* * *

The night before the big date with Leigh, something changes. Instead of George's ghost hands slipping up (his) Susanne's body, the first thing Dean feels is something cold and hard against his lips. He feels Susanne open her mouth and it slips inside, sitting heavy on his tongue and pushing against the roof of his mouth, and though he wants to spit it out, she doesn't and it stays while straps wrap around (his) Susanne's jaw to the back of her head.

Dean's heard of kinky sex. He's watched movies and picked up a few of the mags for this sort of thing, but he thinks that maybe this is a little ridiculous. _Come on, now, George_ , he tries to say, _get to the good stuff_ , but while he knows that he's not _really_ gagged, he's just feeling what Susanne felt, he can't get his tongue to make the right shapes and all that comes out is an odd, garbled mutter. He feels a pressure on his eyes and springs them open, suddenly desperate to see, but Susanne isn't, and the room is dark and he can't even make out the texture of the popcorn ceiling. He feels (his) her arms get tied -- no, _locked_ \-- behind her, hears the faint rattle of chain and feels the way the position arches (his) her back, makes her bare breasts stick out. Another rattle, and Susanne's pulled to the end of the bed and her legs are lifted and spread, shackled to something hanging from the ceiling that has her ass hanging slightly in the cold air, her body held tightly open and ready for whatever it is George is going to do to her tonight, and Dean feels it all, even though he knows -- he _knows_ \-- that he's still lying on his back in the middle of the bed, his hands folded behind his head, one knee bent, with a towel over his crotch for quick clean up.

George, who's usually whispering dirty promises to Susanne with every touch, hasn't said a word.

Dean tries to roll over, thinking that enough is enough, he's learned plenty by now and'll be able to get Leigh off no problem so maybe it's time to put the ghosts to rest, but he _can't_ move. Like the gag with his voice and the blindfold with his sight, the ghost chains are holding his body still just as surely as they held Susanne however long ago this really happened.

Dean wants to panic, is _desperate_ to panic, but though his mind is going _shit_ and _no_ and _get the fuck off me_ , his body's only feeling what Susanne felt: a thrill of anticipation, a shivering glee over being completely and totally helpless and _Jesus_ , Dean thinks, _some people are seriously fucked up._

And god help him, right now, he's one of them.

He hears footsteps, and a door shutting, and then it's just him and Susanne, chest up, legs spread, ass swaying in the breeze. He can feel the low burn of desire from her ghostly body stiffening him up as they wait in the dark silence, but Susanne trusts George, so Dean's trusting George, even though he thinks they both might go insane with the wanting and the waiting before George finally gets back.

Then the crackly, ghost-door creaks and the footsteps return and Susanne and Dean tense as one, already wet for what's to come.

"Susanne," George says, his voice tender but somehow distant and professional. "I'd like you to meet Scott and Karen."

 _He brought FRIENDS?_ Dean thinks. Susanne gasps behind the gag and her body trembles, but her lust only increases with the idea of another couple in the room and looking at her when she's like this, and so Dean's lust goes up, too, and he thinks that if someone doesn't touch them _right the hell now_ , he and Susanne are going to explode and that's going to be really fucking messy.

He can hear George -- or possibly Scott or Karen -- moving around the bed and he pictures him, though he has no idea what he looks like, tilting his head and examining them lying here like they're a really fucking nice car on a dealer's floor. And he realizes that he's thinking of him and Susanne as a "they", like they're one person, like George is looking at _him_ and breathing on _him_ instead of Dean being an unnoticed voyeur like he'd been all the nights before. It's really fucking intense, and Dean's starting to notice that it's a little hard to breath around the phantom gag in his mouth.

When George -- or Scott, but really probably not Karen -- finally touches them, it's to slam into them without warning, and it's really damned lucky that Susanne's as wet as she is, or Dean's pretty sure it would have hurt like hell. It burns slightly, like a good stretch, and Dean and Susanne gasp hard and buck their hips in time to George or Scott's thrusts -- three of them, hard and rapid and then he's suddenly pulling out and the loss makes them gasp all over again and jerk against the restraints and then there's hands, so many hands all over, on Susanne's (Dean's) breasts, on her (his) hips, on her (his) clit -- and yeah, Dean's finally figured out what that sweet, sweet spot is -- and Susanne and Dean are writhing together as far as the restraints allow and the only sounds are the rattle of ghostly chains and the gasps and grunts of Dean and Susanne and George and Scott and Karen and Dean loses track of what's where and who's who and everything is just wild touching and desperate wriggling and mad, mad pleasure so intense that if it weren't for the gag, he'd _scream_ , Sam and Dad be damned.

And then it all goes wrong.

* * *

Dean can't breathe.

He's not sure what happens or how it happens, but he suddenly realizes that in the midst of the touching and the thrusting and the whimpers, something has gotten pressed over his face. It smells like sex and sweat, so he thinks it might be a person, but it's smothering him -- smothering Susanne, really, but he and Susanne are practically the same person, just now, and that means it's smothering _him_ \-- and he can't bring his arms up to push it off. He can't roll out from underneath it, and all his bucking is getting interpreted all wrong and _fucking shit, he can't breath!_

Dean's never heard of "autoerotic asphyxiation", so he has no idea what term to apply to what's happening to him and Susanne. He sure as hell has no idea that people do this _on purpose_. He can feel Susanne riding the terror, getting closer to coming even though he knows her head has to be swimming as much as his is, and he's suddenly struck with the idea that maybe, just maybe, chicks can be as completely stupid over sex as guys are, because this right here, this getting off on the fact that she's _dying_? This is pretty fucking dumb.

And there's not a damned thing he can do about it.

Susanne is dying, too. He knows it, suddenly, as certainly as he knows anything just now -- which isn't all that certain, since there's sparks going off behind his eyelids and his chest is jerking and most of what he knows is that he _can't fucking breathe_ \-- that this is how Susanne died. That George and Susanne have been leading up to this -- _on him_ \-- the entire time, and that maybe if he'd just sucked up his damned ego and told his dad weeks ago, he wouldn't be here right now.

But, instead, he's going to die of kinky sex. Alone in bed before he's even fifteen. And that just fucking sucks.

He's just about gone when he hears a door slam and a shot ring out and suddenly the thing on his face is gone and he sucks in a hard breath through his nose before realizing that the gag is gone, too. The restraits are gone and the blindfold's gone and he's staring at the popcorn ceiling.

George and Susanne are gone.

He gasps again, so hard he chokes on it, and rolls desperately to the side, right off the edge of the bed, and he hears someone say "Dean," and another someone say "Dad?" and the first someone say "Go the fuck to bed, Sammy," and he knows he's been saved from death by sex only to get screwed with death by Dad-lecture, because Dad totally just walked in on him being stupid enough to let a couple of ghosts fuck him to death.

"Dean?" his dad says again, and he's got his hands on Dean's shoulders and goddammit, Dean's _naked_ and still, like, half-hard and aching and frustrated and -- fuck, he's _crying_ \-- and Dad's got his _hands_ on Dean's _shoulders_ like he just made an awesome meatloaf or something and _what the fuck is going on?_

"Your room's haunted," Dad says, and Dean wonders if he actually asked that outloud and if he gets to get the "watch your fucking language" lecture along with the "don't let ghosts fuck you" lecture, 'cause won't _that_ be fun.

"I noticed," Dean says, or he thinks he says, but maybe it's Susanne that's saying it, because his voice isn't that tight and it sure as hell never has half a sob in it, but Dad's squeezing his shoulders and rubbing his hair, so maybe it really is his voice that sounds like that.

"They only go after teenagers," Dad says and Dean goes rigid.

Dad _knows._

"George," Dean says. "And Susanne."

"Got it," Dad says, then "grab a shower. You're crashing in my bed tonight," and he lets go of Dean's shoulders and leaves the room, but not before Dean sees the flash of doubt and fear and pain in his eyes or the rigid posture of his shoulders.

George and Susanne are about to go down, and though Dean's spent the last two weeks getting to know them both _intimately_ , he's elated. He stumbles to his feet, makes it into the shower without Sammy seeing him, somehow, and if he starts shaking and ends up jerking off under the spray, that's nobody's business but his own.

It's not until he's lying down on his dad's bed, letting his dad's scent wash over him and staring resolutely at the wall and not the ceiling that he lets himself think about it.

Dad _knew_. He knew they were there and that they went after teenagers. He just didn't know exactly who they were until Dean told him. There's no someone who knows someone who saved a rooster. Dean was bait.

He lies there like that for a long time, until Dad comes back in sometime just before dawn, reeking of sweat and graveyard dirt and lighter fluid, and Dean doesn't even try to pretend he's been asleep, just stares at him without moving.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Dad says.

"They only go after teenagers," Dean says.

"Went. They're gone, now."

"Teenagers," Dean says.

"Something to do with hormones."

Dean nods and rolls over to face the other wall, but he still doesn't close his eyes. He feels the bed shift as his dad sits down, and he lets himself shake for a moment before bringing his body back under control.

"You okay, kid?" Dad says, after Dean's been staring at the wall for a long time.

Dean nods. Dad doesn't know everything, he realizes. Just "ghosts" and "teenagers" and "hormones" and probably "suffocated". He doesn't know about the death by kinky sex, doesn't know about the late nights of lessons of how to treat a girl just right.

Dean knows, though. And he thinks he has a choice here. He can let tonight, the sex and the bondage and the bait and the -- he can't think of it the way he thinks a therapist might, because _that word_ doesn't happen to a Winchester -- he can let tonight be what sticks with him. Or he can use this and grow. He can take Leigh out -- maybe not tomorrow night, but if he tells her he's sick (and it won't even be much of a lie) he thinks she'll let him postpone -- and he can show her the time of her life and just not think about how he learned it.

He just won't do the bondage thing.

 _Ever._

* * *

Two weeks later, they're moving again, but Dean manages to get his night with Leigh. He's terrified he'll be hearing and feeling George the whole time, but they're not in his room at the old Victorian place, they're in the back of her father's garage, on a couch in his office. He's not always on his back, they're taking turns as they fool around, constantly on the verge of falling off and laughing the whole time. She fumbles open a condom once they're both finally naked, but pauses and looks him over.

"I've never done this," she says, blushing slightly. "I mean, I've messed around -- a _lot_ \-- but I've never gone all the way."

He smiles takes the condom from her and doesn't think about George and Susanne at all. "It's okay," he says. "I can teach you."

And he does.


End file.
